The Stake

by Richard Laymon

  “I bet it wasBenson. Wouldn’t put anything past that slime-bag.”

  “This is awful,” Lane murmured.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Cool it,” Henry said. “It’s not funny.”

  “Maybe not funny, but... somehow, deeply satisfying.”

  Twenty-seven

  Alone as he drove to the public library, Larry at last had time to himself, time to ponder what he’d done that morning and try to relieve himself of the shame.

  He’d betrayed Jean.

  Not really, he thought. It wasn’t that big a deal. You had a little fantasy, that’s all.

  You really wanted Bonnie.

  Jean didn’t know that. She thought it was great.

  The girl’s dead, for godsake.

  I must be nuts, having a dream like that.

  Hell, it’s perfectly natural. I’ve been studyingthe poor kid — looking at pictures of her, reading about her — I’ve got her in the garage! Who wouldn’t start dreaming? I ought to just be glad it wasn’t a nightmare. What if she’d paid her visit the way she looks now!

  Maybe better if she had. Might have scared the shit out of me, but at least I wouldn’t have ended up with a hard-on and all this damn guilt.

  Take it easy, he told himself. It was your subconscious. You can’t control your subconscious.

  Bullshit. It was a wish fulfillment dream. I wantedher to come to my bed. And it wasn’t my subconscious that made me take out my lust on...

  The radio news interrupted his thoughts.

  A family of three murdered here in Mulehead Bend. Their house set on fire.

  One of them, a seventeen-year-old girl.

  He wondered if Lane knew the girl. The name didn’t sound familiar, but she must’ve been a senior at Buford High. Lane almost had to know her.

  They couldn’t have been very good friends, he thought, or I would’ve heard the name before. Jessica. No. It didn’t ring any bells.

  Even if they’re just acquaintances, it’ll be a shock to Lane. A girl in her own class murdered.

  Isn’t anywheresafe?

  Of course not. What are you, an idiot?

  You know damn well Mulehead Bend hasn’t been exactly a haven. Bonnie, Linda, and Sandra are pretty good indications of that. And don’t forget Martha Radley. She was over in Sagebrush Flat, but that’s right next door.

  All high school girls.

  Jessica, too.

  Larry felt a small tremor of excitement in his belly as he wondered if there might be a connection between Jessica and the others from so long ago.

  Didn’t seem likely.

  What if we triggered something? What if taking Bonnie’s corpse?..

  That’s ridiculous.

  Besides, the radio’d said that a young man had been taken into custody. More than likely, this was some kind of a lovers’ quarrel. Most murders come down to that, or an argument between friends, or robbery.

  Maybe this Jessica jilted a guy and he flipped out.

  Nailed her parents, too.

  In a way, he supposed, that was fortunate. Better they should be dead. Easier on them.

  If someone ever did that to Lane, I’drather be killed on the spot than...

  No, I’d want to kill the bastard first. Cut him up realslowly. Make him feel it. Make him...

  Stop it!

  Larry shook his head sharply, trying to jar apart the idea of Lane being killed.

  It won’t happen! It can’t happen!

  It could.

  Christ! Why do I do this to myself? She’s fine. We’re allfine. Forget it.

  He swung into the library’s parking lot, shut off the engine and slumped back against his seat. He felt as if he were suffocating. He took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. The armpits of his shirt felt sodden. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

  He sighed.

  “Me and my damn imagination,” he muttered.

  Didn’t have that, he thought, wouldn’t be an infamous and semi-successful author of horror tales.

  Might be happier, though.

  He sighed once more, then climbed from the car and headed for the library entrance.

  Alice smiled a greeting at him from behind the circulation desk.

  “Morning, Alice,” he said. “Back for another look at those ‘sixty-eight Standards.”

  “Oh, I think that can be arranged.”

  She vanished into her office and returned with the box of microfiche.

  After thanking her, Larry settled down in front of the reader-printer. He searched through the box until he found the fiche labeled Mulehead Evening Standard, August 15, 1968 — the day after the story of Bonnie’s disappearance. He slipped the plastic card out of its envelope, inserted it into the viewer, and brought the newspaper’s front page onto the screen.

  Pictures of the three missing girls.

  The headline read, URIAH RADLEY SOUGHT IN DISAPPEARANCES OF MULEHEAD TEENS.

  “Oh, man,” Larry muttered. He’d expected follow-up stories, but nothing like this.

  Uriah Radley, whose wife and 16-year-old daughter were mysteriously slain at the Sagebrush Flat Hotel on July 15, is being sought by authorities in connection with the recent disappearances of three Mulehead Bend teenagers.

  This startling development was revealed early today by Police Chief Jud Ring, who stated that a witness has identified the former hotel proprietor as the man he saw sitting in a pickup truck near the residence of Bonnie Saxon shortly before the girl vanished.

  An attempt to apprehend Uriah Radley ended in failure early this morning when a party of Mulehead Bend police officers, together with County Sheriff’s deputies, raided the Sagebrush Flat Hotel but failed to locate the suspect.

  It is believed at this time that Uriah Radley has fled the immediate area. A bulletin for his arrest has been issued throughout California, Nevada, and Arizona.

  Bonnie Saxon, 18, former “Spirit Queen” of Bu-ford High School, disappeared from her Usher Avenue home on Friday night. The broken window of her bedroom indicated forced entry, and blood was found on her bed. She was the most recent of three local girls to vanish under mysterious circumstances.

  On August 10, Linda Latham was abducted while walking home from a friend’s house. Prior to that, on July 26, Sandra Dunlap vanished from her home under circumstances nearly identical to those surrounding the disappearance of the Saxon girl.

  The information that Uriah Radley had been seen near the Saxon residence Friday night is considered to be a major break in the matter of the three abductions.

  “We’re very interested in having a chat with Mr. Radley,” commented Chief Ring. “He may or may not have committed the crimes, but we’d certainly like to find out what he was doing in front of the Saxon place at that hour.”

  Authorities have speculated that all three teens were the victims of the same perpetrator. It is now believed that the apprehension of Uriah Radley may lead to information regarding their fates and present whereabouts.

  While the suspect has so far eluded the law, police and deputies are carrying out an exhaustive search of Sagebrush Flat in hopes of locating Radley and/or the missing teens.

  A sidebar story told of Christine Saxon, Bonnie’s widowed mother, issuing a “tearful plea” over a local television station. In a “choked voice” she begged the kidnapper to release her daughter unharmed. Reading it, Larry’s throat tightened.

  God, he thought. The poor woman.

  The story pointed out that her husband had died in a car accident. Now, she’d lost her only daughter.

  He wondered what had become of her. She would probably be in her sixties now, if she was still alive.

  Check the phone book?

  What would I tell her? I’ve found your girl’s body?

  I can’t do that. No way.

  He knew it would probably be a consolation for the woman to learn, at last, what had happened to Bonnie. She would want to give her a proper burial.

  She’ll f
ind out, one way or another, when the book comes out.

  Hell, she might be dead.

  Larry hoped so, then felt guilty for wishing such a thing then told himself that the woman was probably better of dead, at peace, spared from her endless grief.

  But maybe she’s still alive, he thought, clinging to the fragile hope that she might someday be reunited with her daughter.

  The book will destroy her.

  Worry about it later, he told himself. Who knows, she mightbe dead. Or she might be somewhere out of touch and never hear about the book. For that matter, the book might never even be published. What’s the point in stewing about her now?

  Trying to forget about her, Larry copied the two stories. He put away the microfiche and slipped the next day’s Standardinto the machine.

  BIZARRE FINDINGS AT SAGEBRUSH FLAT HOTEL

  Though yesterday’s search of Sagebrush Flat failed to locate either Uriah Radley or any clues as to the whereabouts of the three Mulehead teens who disappeared in recent weeks, authorities have revealed the discovery of several strange items in a hotel room which apparently served as the suspect’s residence.

  The door and windows of the second-floor room were found to be decorated with strands of garlic cloves. In addition, no fewer than four crucifixes were said to be in evidence, though it is believed that the Radleys were of the Presbyterian faith, and not Roman Catholics.

  By far the most startling discovery, however, was the presence of a hammer and half a dozen shafts of wood which had been whittled to sharp points.

  Commented Chief Ring, “I saw enough movies when I was a kid to know this looks like a man who was in the business of killing vampires. I realize itsounds crazy, but why else would a fellow surround himself with garlic and crucifixes, not to mention making himself a batch of wooden stakes? Uriah always was a strange sort. It could be that the loss of his wife and kid unhinged him completely.“

  The chief went on to speculate that Uriah Radley may have believed vampires were responsible for the slaying of his family. “Somehow, he just might’ve gotten it into his head that Sandra Dunlap, Linda Latham, and Bonnie Saxon were the guilty ones and that they were vampires. We’re operating on that assumption, right now, in our search for the girls.”

  Asked about the prospects of finding the three teens alive, Chief Ring responded, “I can only say that we’ll continue searching and hope for the best.”

  Larry sat back in his chair and stared at the screen.

  My God, he thought, I was right!

  He remembered his own speculations, yesterday, after reading about the cremations of Uriah’s wife and daughter. He’d wondered, then, if the crazy bastard had vampires on his mind when he ordered the bodies burnt. The possibility had seemed remote.

  But the guy had garlic, crucifixes, and stakes in his room.

  He didgo after the girls thinking they were the vampires who murdered his family.

  Incredible!

  Larry frowned, wondering why he hadn’t heard of all this before. After what was found in Uriah’s room, the news media should’ve gone wild. You’d think there would’ve been nationwide coverage.

  Probably did get a lot of attention in rags like The National Inquirer, along with the usual array of stories on UFO visits, disemboweled cattle, men giving birth, that kind of thing.

  The legitimate media may have covered it in some small way, but Larry couldn’t recall anything about the situation. There werebigger stories in the summer of 1968: the assassination of Robert Kennedy; the capture of James Earl Ray for the April shooting of Martin Luther King; rioting in the streets because of Vietnam and the King assassination. Hardly surprising if little or no attention was paid to a crazy man running amock in a desert town and kidnapping three teenagers he thought were vampires. Especially if the bodies were never found, if Uriah never got picked up.

  Larry copied the story, then continued his search.

  A small article in the August 17 issue of the Standardindicated that a thorough search of Sagebrush Flat and “its environs” had failed to turn up the missing girls. Uriah Radley was still at large.

  A piece in the August 22 issue indicated that there were no new developments in the matter.

  On Sunday, September 1, a service was held at the First Presbyterian Church for Sandra Dunlap, Linda Latham, and Bonnie Saxon. Families and friends of the missing girls were present. The girls were remembered. Prayers were offered for their safe return and for the comfort of their loved ones during this terrible ordeal.

  Larry noted that the service wasn’t called a “memorial.” The girls were “remembered,” not “eulogized.” Prayers were said for their return.

  He supposed they all knew the poor kids would never be seen again, but they were still clutching onto the small, frail shadow of a hope.

  Larry copied the story, swept the other pages across the screen, found nothing of interest, and went on to the next fiche in the box. He scanned one after another, but finally came to the end of September without finding more stories about Uriah or the missing girls.

  Neither was there news of any further disappearance. The series had ended with Bonnie. It came as no surprise. After that, Uriah had fled the area.

  He’d been gone by the time the cops arrived at Sagebrush Flat. He must’ve known he’d been recognized while he waited in front of Bonnie’s house.

  Larry guessed he had taken her back to the hotel and hidden her body under the staircase before striking out for parts unknown. But what about Sandra and Linda? He wouldn’t have been in such a hurry with them. Maybe he took their staked bodies out into the desert and buried them in unmarked graves.

  On the other hand, maybe he hid them in town the same as Bonnie. All those abandoned buildings. He might’ve boarded them inside walls or under floors.

  I wonder if we could find them, Larry thought.

  The cops didn’t have any luck. Hell, though, they weren’t able to find Bonnie, and she was right under their noses when they searched the hotel.

  Under their noses.

  Well, the area under the stairs was enclosed. Hot and dry. She didn’t decompose so much as she mummified: that was obvious from looking at her. So maybe there wasn’t much to smell.

  Larry remembered the smell under the staircase. Dry, dusty, a little bit like the odor of old books with their pages turning brown.

  And the aromas from his dream came back to Larry. There was the cozy wool odor of her sweater. Her hair, drifting against his face, had smelled like a fresh morning breeze. Her skin had a faint cinnamon scent. Her breath had been like mint, as if she’d recently brushed her teeth.

  Larry leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes. He could almost smell Bonnie now.

  You didn’t smell a thing, he told himself. It was all a figment of your imagination.

  So real, though.

  So real that the memory of it made him long for her.

  Had she smelled that way, he wondered, when she was alive?

  Would she smell that way if she came back to life?

  She’s not a vampire, Larry told himself. But just suppose she is. Just suppose I pull out the stake and she really is a vampire. Would she be just the same as the Bonnie who came to me this morning?

  Would she smell the same? Look the same?

  Would she actthe same?

  Would she love me?

  Twenty-eight

  With a minute to spare before the start of sixth period, Lane entered the classroom. About half the seats were still vacant. Including Benson’s. Including Jessica’s.

  Walking toward her desk, Lane gazed at Jessica’s empty seat.

  The girl would never sit there again.

  The idea of that seemed black and vast, and Lane felt a hot sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She sat down and slumped forward, elbows on her desktop, hands on her cheeks, eyes straightforward.

  Mr. Kramer, she saw, had finished tacking the author pictures to the corkboard. She’d fallen while reaching out w
ith Sandburg, whose calm and solemn face, white hair draping one eye, was now in place next to Frost. After Sandburg, Mr. Kramer had put up T.S. Eliot, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Thomas Wolfe.

  I only had four to go, she thought.

  The fall had seemed like such a major deal: her clumsiness in letting it happen, her embarrassment at the way so much of her body was revealed to Mr. Kramer, the thrill she felt when he touched her. Now none of that mattered very much. Jessica’s death seemed to shrink the importance of everything.

  She’d hardly known the girl. She hadn’t even liked her.

  But ever since hearing the news of the murder, Lane had felt small and insignificant — as if her own life were nothing more than a performance. She was acting in her own stupid little play. And while she dwelled on her petty problems and hopes and desires, safe on her tiny stage, realthings were happening in a real world nearby. A frightful, alien place full of darkness and violent death.

  She didn’t like the feeling, not at all. It made everything she did seem so trivial. Even worse was the nagging worry that somehow, sometime, she might herself bedragged into the same real world where Jessica and so many other people — everyone, maybe, sooner or later — got crushed.

  It scared the hell out of her.

  All day, whenever she was reminded of Jessica, Lane had broken into a sweat. Stopping in the rest room on her way to sixth period, she’d sniffed her armpits. They’d smelled okay, thanks to her deodorant, but her blouse was damp under there. Right now it felt sodden. Perspiration was sliding down her sides, tickling slightly. With no bra to soak up the droplets, they kept going until they were absorbed by her blouse just above her belt.

  She wished, again, that she’d worn her bra to school. Not because of the sweat. Because of Jessica. Because leaving it at home seemed like part of her own little drama, childish and coy in light of the real world’s horrible intrusion.

  Also, she would’ve liked the security of it. Earlier she’d savored the loose, free feelings. But after hearing about Jessica, she’d stopped feeling free. Just vulnerable.

  The bell rang, startling her.

  She sat up straight as Mr. Kramer entered the room. He put down his briefcase, took out a small brown book, then stepped to the front of the table. He sat on its edge, resting the book on his thigh. The room fell silent. He scanned the rows. His face looked grim, a little haggard.